


Double Dare

by Cluegirl



Series: The Passion of Lovers series [2]
Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-11
Updated: 2010-06-11
Packaged: 2017-10-10 01:45:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/93851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cluegirl/pseuds/Cluegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione thinks she knows something, but confronting Professor Snape about it yields a very different result to what she'd expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Double Dare

His hair is soft. Very soft and very fine. Perhaps this is why it never lays down properly, but starts and spikes like drifts of black featherdown around his face. Black hair is rarely anything but coarse -- thick-stranded, tending to oily, hanging heavily to whatever length it is allowed.

Of course _his_ hair must be different.

This singularity is the only reason I touch his hair while he kneels between my thighs. His head knows well enough what to do without my guidance and his throat is so welcoming I hardly need to push him. If I wind my hands around his skull, thread my fingers deep into the downy, wild, silken mess, it is to _feel_ him, the difference of him. Because a mouth -- even his sulking, pouting, self-righteous-indignation spitting mouth is only a _mouth_ when it is wrapped around my cock and sucking for all it is worth.

And his mouth is warm, yes, and deep, yes, and hot, very hot. And the tongue slithers around me, toys with my foreskin, and strives to lave my bollocks even as he's stretching himself to almost-swallow me. His mouth is soft and hungry and not quite silent as he slurps and grunts his arousal around my erection. But it is only a mouth, and I clench my fingers in that silken, feathery hair when I fill his mouth with my spend.

He sits back on his heels when I push him, throat still working as he licks his lips, clearing the taste of me from his tongue and teeth. His lips are blood-full and puffy, slick with my come and his saliva, but drying quickly as he steals panting breaths and tries to hide his unconcealable green eyes beneath his lashes -- tries to seem as if he isn't staring at me hungrily even now.

He is hard.

Again.

I give the youthful erection, lurching hopefully up from the thin tangle of shadows between his legs, barely a glance, then I jerk my chin at the chair. He's come once already tonight, and will undoubtedly have it off in the hallway just as soon as his detention is over. I've no more sympathy for his adolescence than he for my middle age.

"Name three things you might've done with that," I say, buttoning my trousers, "had you not swallowed it."

He swallows one last time, then stands and draws his trousers up, hiding his cock, his strap-reddened thighs, his glowing arse. He wears no underpants. After the third time I thrashed him, Potter no longer appeared to his 'special' detentions with any underclothes at all -- disliking, I presume, the post-release pain of having such constricting garments up against his inflamed skin. I cannot say I blame him, as I myself have foregone any underwear after the second time I allowed the brat to suck me off afterward.

He sits with a wince, still threading his belt through the loops. "I, er, could have used it to focus a locating charm on you, or I could have used it in an _Inflamata_ potion, to make you want-"

"Not if it had been in your mouth," I correct him, and the glint of mischief retreats from his eyes.

"No, Sir," he admits, "because… Because then it would affect me as well?"

As if he required any help in that regard! Still, I nod, then wait expectantly. He bites his lip and shifts in the chair, wincing as the action rubs his sore arse -- or perhaps his needy cock -- on the desk. "Or I could have…" his brow furrows, wrinkling the famous scar askew, "I could have used it in summoning a Succubus, if I mixed it with dog's blood and white arsenic."

I scowl. "I am no virgin, Potter."

"Wouldn't it be the same since you hadn't been with a woman though, Sir?" He asks, and only then realizes his rudeness. He looks down, contrite even before the scowl fully settles on my face.

"No, it would _not_ be the same, Potter. And you haven't the restraint required to pass up seconds at pudding, let alone the attraction of a seducer-spirit, even _with_ the correct safeguards."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Didn't say it would _work_," he makes an attempt at his old, mulish tone, but I can hear laughter underneath it. "Just that I could've used it."

I roll my eyes and tell him to get out. It is either that or laugh at his joke, and there are some liberties I do not allow anyone -- no matter how hungry his eyes or mouth. Joking with me is one of those. But first I assign him an essay on _proper_ summoning of Infernals. He does not roll his eyes, but he does manage to get his smile under control by the time he's finished packing his book bag.

"Potter." I send his name to stop him at the door for the last element of this twisted little ritual we carry on between us. He doesn't look up as I swivel my chair to regard him. "Learn your lesson from this," I tell him, though we both know better, "cease provoking me, or I can promise you I will not stay my hand in the future."

"Yes, Professor." The same words he always says, but I know I do not imagine that each repetition of them is a trifle less cowed, a sliver less contrite, and just a tiny bit hopeful. The Boy who Lived is on his way to a well-entrenched perversion. But then again, aren't we all?

He opens the door, and the room floods with a sudden tension. His shoulders go rigid with shock and my wand slaps into my hand at once.

"Hermione," he says, blinking, "What are you do-"

The girl dithers. "Oh, er, sorry Harry, I didn't know you'd be... Did you have detention? I didn't recall your having-"

"I did, what are you-"

"Far be it from me to interrupt your courtship dance," I call, "however, I should like to know what business the Gryffindor Prefect has on my doorstep after curfew."

Potter steps out of the doorway, and she edges inside. "I, er, think I left my homework here," her eyes flicker to the left, and I need no legillimency to know she is lying, though Potter, I imagine, is wholly taken in. "I came to check if anyone had turned it in after class. I'll just take a moment, Sir, and Harry, there's no need to wait for me. I'll see you back in the dorm."

He hesitates, as surprised as I am that his toady has effectively sent him away, but after a second, he goes.

"I know what you're doing to him!" The words burst out of her the instant the door clicks shut.

I raise my eyebrow. "Do you?"

"I do!" She advances on my desk, and the flush across her plump cheeks says she's working herself up to a towering indignation. This promises to be quite entertaining. "You're abusing him, and it has to stop. He can't take it -- it isn't fair with everything else he has to bear up to. You have no right to be... to be..."

"To be doing what, exactly, Miss Granger? Let us have this accusation plainly spoken instead of danced around like a maypole." I lean my chair back, grinning as her blush deepens. "Come now, if you cannot elucidate what you imagine my crime to be, you can hardly expect me to take your accusation seriously."

"You're making him have s-sex with you." Her face rivals her tie for redness and I cannot help smirking. I haven't, actually. Not beyond allowing him to frot himself against my leg while I redden his arse with his belt and then letting him suck me afterward, but I can just imagine the lurid scene her repressed little imagination must be painting for her. "It's **wrong**, Sir! Harry's only sixteen, _and_ he's your student, and it's... it's..."

"Illegal?" I supply mildly, enjoying the girl's huff. "Come now, Miss Granger. In such situations as this, laws are chiefly for the comfort of those too simple or too lazy to sort out for themselves what they ought to do."

She straightens up, smoothing her robes and her temper, "it's unethical, Professor Snape. It's unethical, and you have to stop."

There is a difference between laughing with a student and laughing at one. Her face goes a shade of maroon just shy of her house colours and just as unflattering. I find that an even better reason to laugh.

"You are a self-righteous and naive little fool, Miss Granger," I manage at last, "I have far more important ethical considerations clamouring for my attention than whether it might be wrong to give release to a hormonal, teenaged celebrity who clearly craves the attention." I take up my quill and reach for a stack of essays which I'd brushed to the corner of the desk earlier. "Your friend Mr. Potter wants it. I am not above giving it to him. The rest is no concern of yours, Miss Granger."

"How far _has_ it gone then?" No, of course the wretch couldn't let it go at that. She is a damned Gryffindor, after all.

"It matters?" I challenge her, "Is your muggleborn sensitivity inclined to delineate between polluting the boy's hands or mouth versus, say, bending him across my desk and buggering him until he's cross-eyed and howling?" Merlin, but the colours this chit can achieve. It's amazing, really.

"That's sick!"

"Ah yes. Muggles do have trouble with same-gender relations, don't they?"

"No, I mean it's not healthy! I've nothing against homosexuality," though she does still stammer to say the word, I note with smugness, "but Harry's too young, and so much has happened to him! His parents, those awful Dursleys, and Cedric and now Sirius! He's confused -- he can't possibly judge for himself what he needs, and-"

"I rather wonder, Miss Granger, if you've the nerve to say that to his face." She has the grace to look shamefaced at her own thoughtlessness, so I press onward while she is still taken aback. "However, since we're weighing the relative merits of young Potter's activities, let us consider the whole. Do you imagine that being forced to face the Dark Lord in one way or another, from the age of fifteen months has had a positive effect upon Potter's development as a well-balanced and healthy young man?" Yes, it will have been the first time she's heard me acknowledge the boy's excessive burdens. It annoys me, having been manipulated into uttering it, so I sneer at her horrified expression. "If you're bound to eradicate threats to Potter's health, I suggest you begin with the Dark Lord, and move from there to the Headmaster. I assure you that both warrant far more concern than I."

Her eyes narrow. Damn. "Dumbledore will do nothing about this," I cut her off even as her prim lips open, "he relies far too much on what I do for him to let a little squeamishness on your part influence him. Far too much hangs in the balance."

"Squeamish!" Any more shrill, and my glassware would be in danger. "So he knows you're doing this? He's allowing you to molest-"

"No, the Headmaster hasn't needed to ask that I take his pet weapon in hand, Miss Granger -- that arrangement is between Mr. Potter and myself. However, don't imagine that I require the Headmaster's approval -- Albus Dumbledore is the walking embodiment of the phrase 'Needs must, when the Devil drives', and as we both know, the Devil has been at the reins since the end of the Tri-Wizarding tournament. And spare me," I raise a hand to her impending outburst, "your outraged Gryffindor rhetoric if you please, for I am in no mood to indulge your sheltered sense of propriety."

"So you won't stop, then?" she demands, mouth clamped as prim and small as her House Mistress' on a bad day. "You'll keep on _using_ Harry to satisfy your perversions?" I can't help rolling my eyes, but beyond that, see no reason to answer what was hardly a question to begin with. "What if I told? What if I told the whole school what you're doing?"

"Then I rather imagine your young friend would become the laughingstock of Hogwarts, Miss Granger," I reply, lining out an entire passage for the sake of one dangling participle and a trite conclusion. "I should think after last year you'd have a better understanding of the kind of damage such gossip can do to a young Hero like Our Mr. Potter."

"The Board of Governors then," she shrills, "What will _they_ have to say about one of their Professors molesting a student right under their noses!" Desperate now, her eyes are bright with outrage and tears. And finally she is approaching a threat worth my consideration. I lay my quill aside.

"Is your own personal moral triumph really worth losing the war, Miss Granger?" She makes a rude noise, but then gulps, her eyes flickering rapidly as she adds it all together; my service to the Order of the Phoenix, my usefulness to the Dark Lord, how much Dumbledore vitally needs the information only I can hope to supply him. "Bear in mind, please," I add as she goes chalky, "that should the tide turn to the Dark Lord's favor, your young friend will almost certainly suffer _far_ more than you currently imagine he is doing."

Her shoulders slump. She looks away and does not glance back. "But... I don't understand _why_," she murmurs, both hands fisted in her robes, "you've always been horrible to us in classes, but I thought under it all, you were still-"

"Sweet Salazar, girl, imagine what you will about your young Mr. Potter, but kindly keep **me** out of your romantic fantasies! You are hardly fit to tell a 'good' man from a foul one at your age, you ignorant chit."

"Then tell me why!" She's forgotten herself enough to shout at me. No doubt she'll recall that with some horror once she's finally sent upstairs with her tail pinned down. "You don't even LIKE Harry -- you never have! So why would you be- be-"

"Fucking him?" I twirl my quill, amused as she blanches, but she does not look aside. "Because he rather needs it."

She snorts derision. "You don't care what he needs -- not even for a pity-f-" she swallows, tries again, "for a pity-f-!" she really _can't_ bring herself to say it. How droll! She clenches her fists and takes a deep breath. "Why are _you_ doing it?" In a moment, she will cry, I'm certain. I've never made Granger cry before. What a day this is turning out to be!

"Very well, Miss Granger, since you insist, I shall allow you a glimpse into the occluded depths of your horrid old Potions Master." I wave a hand at the chair, and wait until she huffs over to take it.

"I am, it will surprise you to learn, quite an uncomplicated man. Oh yes, you needn't make that face, it's true. Many entertain themselves by assigning labyrinthine motivations to my every word and glance, and it amuses me to foster the misapprehension. However the truth is this: When I eat, it is because I am hungry. When I sleep, it is because I am weary, when I take points from Gryffindor, because Gryffindor has aggravated me beyond my temper's limit." Which is no more than the truth, though I do not see fit to add that the pastime is entertainment in its own right.

"Now," I continue, pinning her with my glare and twirling the quill back and forth between my hands, "taking this new information into account, I invite you to apply your," I am unable to suppress a snort here, "celebrated cleverness to the question of why I might be _fucking_ the Boy Who Lived, why I might allow him to _suck_ my _cock_ when he begs for permission to do so, and why I might, in the not-infrequent event he may require it, administer the occasional sound thrashing to his taut little Quidditch-hooligan's arse." Her eyes have closed, and she is trembling. Oh yes. Her cheek _is_ glimmering just there beneath the fluff of her mousy hair. Perfect.

"Have you deduced the answer yet, Miss Granger?" My light tone, the mockery of easy cheer, cuts, coming as it has on the heels of a growl. She jumps a little, then again when she realizes I've left my chair and circled around to loom over her. "It is because I _want_ to, Miss Granger," I do not bother to hide my satisfaction as she scrambles out of the chair, breathing hard and fumbling for her wand.

"You can't- you don't-" she fetches up against the door, swallowing hard as she realizes that I have made no move to either follow, or counter her impending attack. For her sake, I am glad the brat takes herself in hand before casting anything though -- the wards I have in these rooms are not kind to those who try and attack me. "Have you no shame?" She whispers at last.

Shame? This lily-handed little cat slinks down here mewing to **me** about shame? It takes me a moment to turn the impulse surging through me from violence to laughter, though the sound of it is no less furious than a shout. Her wand hand tightens as she shrinks a little against the door.

"Oh, I've shame in plenty, Miss Granger," I manage at last, whirling away to the shelter of my desk, "I simply reserve it for my _significant_ trespasses. And upon that note, our interview is at an end. Go back to your ivory tower, Miss Granger, for you clearly have neither stomach nor nerve to plumb the depths to which you've swum."

I return to my marking, but I can hear the breath whistling through her nostrils, shallow, furious, defeated and loathing it, as any good Gryffindor does when a Slytherin bests. She's sorting out her final volley even now -- ah.

"Very well, I _will_ go," she says and I hear the latch click open, "But I'll find a way to stop you, I swear I-"

"_Obliviate!_"

My head snaps up in surprise at Potter's voice. I see him catch the girl's shoulder through the swinging door, to stop her stumbling into him. Well, well, well. So perhaps he was not as taken in as he pretended to be. A point to Gryffindor for that, I suppose.

"Harry?" Her voice is muzzy and dazed, "What have- I don't-"

"Are you all right, Hermione?" He brushes her hair back to examine her forehead, "I didn't mean to hit you with the door. Does it hurt much?"

Her fingers follow his, and I bite back a smirk. The wretched boy needs no encouragement from me. "I... no, no it's fine," she says, smiling at him, "you just startled me is all."

"Good. Listen, I talked to Parvati, and she's found your homework."

Granger blinks, a line forming between her brows. Oh dear, Potter seems to have fumbled his ploy after all. "My homework?"

"That you lost?" he prompts her ingenuously, "It was under the sofa in the common room, along with one of Crookshanks' hair-wads." He pulls a face just a little too comic, and I wince, but she is still too dazed to notice it. Granger allows him to lead her out into the corridor and send her off. No, he'll be right along, he's something to ask Professor Snape first, yes, he'll be sure to get a permission note, no he won't be long.

The boy's eyes are hot when he closes the door, and his wand is in his hand. I find I can summon rather less sangfroid now than I could when the Granger girl thought to threaten me. Because this is Harry Potter, and he _has_ bested the Dark Lord on more than one occasion. Who knows what he could-

But he only casts a silencing spell on the door, then leans against it, still staring as though he can bore through me with those remarkable eyes. For a moment I am mesmerized by what I see, but cannot define in them. Anger, heat, green reflections and firelight, trepidation, eagerness (for a fight, or something else?) outrage or maybe challenge, and gravity... a gravity so terrible it feels as if it will crush the breath from me, swallow my whole star intact. I can no more tease out the elements of his stare than I could analyze a strange potion by sight, but I see enough to wonder, in this breathless, silent moment, if I have not just made a grievous error.

"Was it true?" The words come so softly, "What you said?"

Those lips never give utterance so quietly as that -- they trumpet, they hiss, they proclaim, snarl and shout -- but this is low, level and smooth as a candle's gleam in a draughtless room. It takes me a moment of staring at his lips to realize that he has spoken at all.

_True?_ I think to myself, _Was it?_ But there is no room for self-examination under the crushing mass of those green eyes. Ghosts wait there along with him for my answer, barely seen in the whorl of the ancient door's grain, but unmistakable in this dark place I haunt. _He is a child,_ I tell myself, and do not let my face change, _He has never been a child. He will do as he will -- always has done, and you never could stop him._

I give him one slow, definite nod, and answer gravely. "Complete falsehood."

His brows draw down and he steps away from the door, green eyes still fixed on mine. I hold his gaze as a pretext of keeping an eye on his wand hand. I will look away in a moment though; I know better than to let myself be trapped by so green and heavy a gaze. His lips are pressed, but it seems as if one corner flexes, just the tiniest bit as he comes to my desk, then around the side, as though to loom over me -- as though he imagines he could possibly intimidate. His fingers flex, restless at his sides. His cock, I notice, is still hard under the tented fly of his school trousers. A wet smudge darkens the wool just below his belt.

"Then I guess," he says, still in his eerily sure, quiet voice, "you don't want to touch me, do you?" And I can _see_ his erection twitch, just at his words; can almost hear the whisper of the flushed, turgid head against the fabric. For a moment I imagine it -- how that young, eager flesh would feel under my palm instead of grinding into my leg. Petal soft, hot, slick where the tip pokes through his foreskin as it does when he is this desperate for friction. For touch. I imagine him spending in strings of sticky white over my fingers, over my face.

My lips are too dry.

"You don't want to rub your c-cock against mine," he goes on, leaning closer, "and make me come all over your belly?" And I think of him, writhing against me, sweat-slick and gasping, those reedy limbs wound around me like a climbing vine, his arse clenched tight in my hands, still glowing from the strap as my fingers sink into the gripping heat of him.

"I guess you don't," he is so very close. His breath gusts across my ear, still smelling of my spend. I can hear his pink tongue slithering out to wet his still-swollen lips. "...necessarily want to bend me across your desk and..." his fingers brush my collar, then seek upward, along the line of my throat, undeterred by the convulsive swallow I can't suppress. "oh, say... bugger me until I'm cross-eyed and howling?" The pads of his fingers rasp against my beard as he reaches the point of my chin and tips my face up to his, and suddenly the potion of his eyes is clear to me; it is no blend making up that roiling green weight, but rather a pure distillation of _want._

Am I his rebellion? Am I his lashing out at the inescapable prophecy, and the madman who's obsession will see it true? At the world that will let it all happen to him? I recognize this hunger for freedom, for dissolution, for autonomy and release -- I have seen it before. I have lived before this desire to dance on the coals as the world burns down, and I thicken and grow hard at the memory of that reckless thirst, and of how good it felt to slake it.

My lips are far too dry.

And the wretched brat is _smirking_!

This has, it occurs to me, gone far enough. I catch Potter's wrist, twist it away from my chin, and then surge to my feet. He startles flat against the desk, knocking essays, quills and ink to the floor in his quest for balance. His hungry eyes are wide, but his cheeks glow with nerve and desire. He is afraid, but he is not _too_ afraid, even if his world burns down in the feel of my cock splitting him wide and the sound of my tongue deriding him for loving it. Exploitation indeed!

"Bend you across my desk and bugger you?" I snarl, filling my hands with his robes and pulling the brat to his tip-toes, the end of his up-turned nose just brushing mine, "I want nothing of the kind!"

He grips my hands, and his fingers tremble. For just a second, I am convinced that the brat-king will erupt from those narrowed eyes. I am prepared; his arse can be far more red before I sink into it, and he will still writhe and beg me for it. But instead of shouting, he catches his lower lip between his white, even teeth and looks away. "I'm sorry, Sir," he murmurs, not smirking at all.

"You should be," I assure the brat with a shake. His hair drifts soft across my face as I haul him across the office and sling him full out along the sofa beside the fireplace. He lands with a grunt and a sprawl -- all knees and elbows and startled eyes and straining, wool-covered prick -- a look of which I imagine I could grow quite fond, really. "Merlin knows _what's_ been spilled across that wretched desk!"


End file.
